


Clean

by kaguyahime7



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: F/M, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-06 13:14:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15886776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaguyahime7/pseuds/kaguyahime7
Summary: Shelagh tries to spend her morning off being productive and cleaning. She fails, with help from Patrick.





	Clean

**Author's Note:**

> Five kettles for this one, definitely, it is unapologetic smutty nonsense with a threadbare plot. Not beta-ed, any mistakes are my own.

“Oh!”

A dust cloud explodes in Shelagh's face after she sneezes. Standing on a kitchen chair to dust the upper cabinets in her sock-clad feet was not one of her brightest ideas, and there's still at least a dozen chores that need to be tackled before the children arrive home. 

One of Angela's dresses needs to be hemmed, Tim forgot to separate his darks and lights again, and Teddy's cream sweater is missing another button—he is so much like his father, she realizes, losing buttons on sweaters and coats so often that she contemplates buying pull-over clothing for her youngest until she can sit down and teach him how to sew. But she can't think about that now as she slips backwards towards the floor and a concussion.

Lord, she still needs to start making dinner and iron Patrick's shirts and vacuum the den, and how will all of these tasks get done if she's knocked out cold on the kitchen tile? Oh, that will need to be cleaned too, especially if there's blood from her head leaking onto the linoleum. Will Patrick remember to use the right cleaner? Did she tell him that it's under the sink—no, not that one, that's for cleaning the counters—dear God, what if he doesn't know where the clean towels are and uses one from the dirty laundry?

“Got you!”

As if summoned by a miracle, Patrick is there to catch her before she hits the ground. How very quaint and storybook-like that the handsome prince is there at just the right time to catch his princess and save her from danger. 

“What in the world were you thinking?” he asks. “You could've fallen and hurt yourself.”

“I was just doing a spot of cleaning,” she protests. “It's the first morning off I've had in ages and there's so much that needs to be done.”

He sets her down and examines her silently. She fidgets awkwardly under his gaze. The longer his scrutiny lasts, the more she flushes and acutely feels a new surge of sweat soaking into her brassiere. She is uncomfortably aware of how filthy she must look, with a thin layer of grime on her clothes and dust in her hair. 

“Patrick, I'm fine, I don't know why—mmmphf!”

For all the subtleties and nuances in their initial courtship and early days of marriage, she finds it ironic that he can still surprise her with a single silent action. His mouth is on hers and oh, how easy it is for him to make her forget about that endless list of things to do today. The tasks that seemed so important five minutes ago doesn't seem to matter nearly as much as what she knows is coming. 

She backs into the kitchen counter and hoists herself up with a grace that surprises her, ignoring the fact that her dress and apron are covered in household dirt and she'll need clean the surfaces again. None of that is relevant, the only thing she wants now is to relieve the humming ache in her belly. She is not young, neither of them is, but a reckless, giddy feeling grows in her chest. She is wet and slick with sweat and does not bother to ponder if her current state is due to overzealous cleaning or the knowledge of where this is going. 

His breath is cool against her sweating skin, and she arches into him with a muffled groan as he sucks away the moisture from her collarbone. She was uncomfortably warm before from two hours' worth of cleaning. A needy sort of hunger in the voice tells him to keep going, not to stop, to continue stoking this heat until she burns. His hands, so skilled and knowledgeable in all the right ways, skim down her back and until they reach her waist. She swallows another moan as her legs part and her knees brush against his groin. She feels him harden immediately, even under layers of clothing, and grins mirthfully as he echoes back with a guttural groan and grazes her slippery skin with his teeth. She wants it to bruise, to leave a mark that she will cover with a cardigan later, but will remain for her to remember this by. 

He pops away from her collarbone. Salt from their mingled sweat soaks her lips and stings her tongue as his mouth returns to hers. The rational part of her brain thinks she should be mildly perturbed about the mixture of dirt and sweat passing between them. The other parts of her brain smother that notion as one of his hands roves up from her waist to knead a breast. 

The dusting rag falls to the floor as her hand clambers on the counter for something to hold onto. She hears the distinct sound of a zipper and obligingly brushes her skirt and knickers aside with her other hand. Her ankles hook around his back as he thrusts into her. She cries out, a mixture of relief and satisfaction that makes him push faster, and she loses herself in the middling place between conscious thought and incoherent bliss as each thrust brings her closer to a breaking point. She is weightless, she is soaring, she does not want this moment to end and rides it as long as she dares. 

She cannot speak, she cannot tell him that even after all this time together, learning every inch of their bodies and still wanting more, she can only muffle into his shoulder as his ragged breathing hitches once, twice, and then stops as his heavy body falls against her. The kitchen is silent except for single shuddering sigh from one of them, she isn't sure which. 

He cradles her face tenderly and kisses her once more. His eyes, wide and dilated only moments ago, resume their regular size she hops off the counter and squeezes his hand reassuringly.

“I think all that cleaning merits a shower for both of us,” she says coyly, casually draping her apron on the kitchen table and heading towards the stairs.

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when I try to make a cleaning to-do list on a day off from work and spend the morning writing smutty Turnadette instead. Oops. I blame ginchy for encouraging me.


End file.
